


The King's Arms

by orphan_account



Series: Collection of short fics [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Humor, M/M, Oxford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken cuddle outside <a href="http://andyrawlins.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/img_8604.jpg">this pub</a> in Oxford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Arms

**Author's Note:**

> For Amy. (Written August 10th 2012)

“Oh God, Arthur, no- no. You can’t be serious, Arthur!” Merlin slurs his words, leaning heavily against Arthur’s big, warm, solid shoulder as they stumble up the curb - invisible in the darkness - towards the noisy hum of another pub.

Arthur sticks out an arm to catch Merlin when he trips. By the time they’re both standing up straight again, they’ve realised that Merlin almost falling over is the funniest thing in the _world_ , and so are making sure that they both give laughing at it all of their attention. Merlin is doubled over in no time, clutching his stomach and snorting after every inhale. Arthur’s no better - he’s sunk down to sit on the pavement and is leaning backwards, perilously close to tipping over into the road. His shoulders are shaking violently with each wave of helpless laughter and his eyes have started watering.

“C—careful!” Arthur wheezes at last, wobbling dangerously as he clambers to his feet. He reaches out and shoves Merlin’s shoulder blade in the general direction of the pub door. “C’mon. In.”

“But Arthur!” Merlin whines, taking one reluctant step forward but keeping his dopey gaze fixed on Arthur’s face. “I’m so—so-” he yawns. “Tired. And drunk. Really.”

Arthur just shushes him. Loudly. Like the village idiot in a pantomime. “Shhhhh!” he says, making the woman perched, smoking, at the outdoor table beside them frown. “We  _have_ to! It’s—it’s The King’s Arms, Merlin. The King’s  _Arms._ ”

Merlin takes another step forward, but only because he’s suddenly very dizzy and he needs to brace himself against the doorframe.

“We’re almost done!” Arthur stage-whispers. “All the pubs in Oxford! All of them. Just this one left. Arms, Merlin.  _Arms_.”

Arthur breaks out into an undignified fit of snickering again and Merlin rolls his eyes.

“I dun’ ger’it,” he mutters, sulking. “Wanna go back to-” yawn “-college.”

“Stop that!” Arthur says - shouts, perhaps - as he shoves Merlin’s shoulder until he practically _falls_  into the pub. “Wad—Wad—Wad _ham_ owns this pub. So. So you’re already in college. Now buy whiskey.”

Merlin pouts. He’s fairly sure that he had intended to be sleeping off his hangover by this time, not insulating it with more alcohol, but he’s only been in Oxford for thirteen days and if Arthur says he’s back in college then he probably is - the place is a bloody navigation nightmare.

They order more glasses of whiskey than Merlin can count (four each) and when they leave the pub in a mess of flailing, cascading limbs, Merlin has reached the needy stage of drunkenness. It’s the point at which he knows he’s gone too far, and then some, and then some  _more_. They start trying to cross the road, jabbing at the traffic light button until Arthur realises that it’s actually a lump of old chewing gum, shouts something involving a lot of “fucking  _idiot_  Merlzin I can’t be—believe you did tha’!” in Merlin’s ear and drags him out across the concrete.

The night air is fresh and chill against their skin. It doesn’t shock Merlin into sobriety - he’s too far gone for that - but it  _does_ make him grin and stretch his arms out on either side of himself. Merlin makes a loud, indistinct humming sound, trying to remember his favourite TV theme from when he was little, and then twirls around on the spot. He looks up above the orange glare of the Oxford street lights at the twinkling stars, watching him from their lofty perches. Merlin grins goofily at the thought of tiny men with lanterns and grey beards peering down at him as he spills out of a pub in Oxford, singing like he’s doing an impression of a drowning pig.

Then, as he twirls and grins and sings, Merlin forgets about his feet for a split second and loses his balance. He topples backwards, eyes opening wide in shock and then squeezing tight in preparation for an almighty head-versus-concrete showdown which Merlin  _knows_ his head will lose.

But it doesn’t come. Instead of his world turning horizontal and a splitting ache in his head, Merlin feels himself still standing - and, what’s more, with his cheek pressed against something warm and squishy and scratchy.

“Hnf,” Merlin huffs, not daring to open his eyes. “S’appened?”

A puff of laughter against his eyebrow is all it takes for Merlin to remember Arthur.

“I caught you, dickhead,” Arthur mumbles, the syllables running together to the point of overlapping. It’s a miracle that he can still string a coherent sentence together (Merlin’s too drunk to consider whether or not it’s an  _intelligent_ sentence) and when Merlin feels the warm weight of Arthur’s arms closing around his shoulders, he makes an affectionate purr-squeak sort of noise.

“Mmmm, thanks,” Merlin says, his voice low and content as he nuzzles his nose into what he’s beginning to realise is Arthur’s jawline. The stubble scratches a little but it feels  _brilliant,_ and without higher brain function Merlin really has no choice but to poke his tongue out and lick at the smell of sweat and beer and old cologne which is seeping from Arthur’s skin.

For a minute which feels like a few seconds and an hour all at once, Merlin can hear Arthur letting out a shaky breath, then the grip of Arthur’s biceps around Merlin’s shoulders tightens, and he can’t help but moan.

“Ngh, oh  _god_ -” Merlin drops the mental capitalisation in favour of a good dose of desperation. “Your arms are so—they’re all. All big and—and don’t let go, Arthur. Please. _Arthur_ don’t let go.”

Arthur squeezes his arms around Merlin once more and pecks a kiss against the shell of his ear, then says, “I swear, Merlin, I  _swear_  I wanna keep ho—ho-” a sneeze, speckling Merlin’s cheekbone with tiny cold dots of moisture. Great. “—Hold of you,” Arthur manages at last. “But this is a road.”

“Shit,” Merlin mumbles with so little emotion behind it that he could be reading out a list of last year’s failed lottery numbers. “K. Ok. Shit—cars.”

Just before he pulls out of Arthur grip and turns to stumble towards the other side of the road, Merlin is sure he feels Arthur smile against his ear. Maybe he did - it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Merlin staying awake long enough to make Arthur hug him again. He can’t fall asleep on the floor outside the Bod, can he?


End file.
